The Bride Next Door by Hope Ramsay (4)

Seriously, I think the world needs more love songs,” Arwen said as she piled crab dip onto a pita chip. She popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment, emitting a little groan of pleasure. It was Thursday-night happy hour at the Jaybird Café, and the drinks and appetizers were half-priced—a good thing because Courtney and Arwen needed self-medication.

“If the world needs more love songs, why do you write so many songs about heartbreak?” Courtney asked. Arwen had come directly from work and looked professional, preppy, and uptight in her J.Crew business suit.

“I’m just saying,” Arwen said as she scooped another mound of dip onto a chip, “when every popular song is about getting it on, it leads to unrealistic expectations.”

“Lyrics have nothing to do with it,” Courtney replied. “Guys are guys. They’re born with sex on the brain.”

“I concede that point. And I’ll concede that women like sex too. A lot. But our generation has taken a bad turn somewhere. We’ve substituted Netflix and chill for dinner and a movie. Where’s the romance?” Arwen loaded up another chip and pointed it at Courtney like a weapon. “Has anyone ever sent you flowers?”

Courtney paused, her Manhattan halfway to her mouth. “Damn. You’re right.” She proceeded to take a big gulp of her drink. “You know, that’s depressing. I mean, I’m freaking out because both my boss and my assistant are pregnant, and I haven’t even gotten to the stage where a guy likes me enough to send flowers.”

“That’s my point. No one sends flowers anymore, except to their mothers on Mother’s Day. Romance is dead in America.”

Courtney pulled the cherry out of her Manhattan and popped it into her mouth. The intense sweetness burst onto her tongue like a vivid memory of younger days. Right after her mother passed away, Daddy had started a tradition of Friday-night dinner “dates.” Friday became their special time together. She would never forget that night, a few weeks after Mom had died from leukemia, when he’d taken her to the Red Fern and ordered her a Shirley Temple cocktail. The taste of maraschino cherries would always remind her of Mommy who had died so young.

Arwen was right. Guys like her dad, who used to send Mom flowers all the time, no longer existed. “I should stop waiting around for Mr. Right.”

“Waiting around in what way?”

Arwen’s question startled Courtney. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that we say that all the time, and when you parse it out, what does it mean? Why are we waiting? Is real life going to start when some guy arrives? Shouldn’t we concentrate on enjoying our lives now?” She helped herself to another pita chip smothered with crab dip and chewed with a thoughtful expression on her face.

Leave it to Arwen to get philosophical. Courtney leaned back in her chair, took another sip of her Manhattan, and cast her gaze over the usual Jaybird regulars: Juni Petersen, the Jaybird’s owner, dressed in a long, flowing India-print dress; Rory Ahearn, chatting up the ladies and flashing them his Irish smile; and Ryan Pierce, sitting at the end of the bar nursing a Coke, all of them single, all of them damaged in some way.

Damn. Half the people in the bar were waiting for something.

“Maybe I should find some guy with great genes and ask him to donate some sperm,” Courtney said, half in jest.

“Maybe you should get a cat.” Arwen’s eyebrows lowered in her signature look of disdain.

“I don’t want a cat. Getting a cat would be like, I don’t know, surrendering or something.”

“But do you want to be a single mother?”

Courtney shook her head. “No. It’s hard to believe, but I’d like to have the whole nine yards, you know: the doting husband, the three-bedroom house, the two kids. I suppose I could settle for somebody.” She cast her gaze toward Ryan Pierce and wondered about his demons. Could she lead him to the altar?

Did she even want to was a better question.

“I see where you’re looking.” Arwen said. “Do not even think about going there. I know he’s adorable, but he’s not the guy you’re looking for. I don’t ever see him with 2.3 kids and a minivan.”

“You’re right. On the other hand, he might be just what I need in order to mess with Matthew Lyndon’s head.”

“In what way?”

“Well, it’s only been a few days since Matt and I had dinner at the Union Jack. He’s sent me the obligatory three texts, designed to let me know that he’s still interested, but it’s too early for him to call. I figure he’ll reach out to me on Tuesday night, when he’ll either ask me out for drinks or in for Netflix. So that means I need to be busy next Wednesday night.”

“You know, Matt is a puzzle actually. I can’t decide whether he’s a jerk or just unsure of himself.”

“Unsure of himself? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Yeah, I know. But the thing is, he’s got this way of BSing people when he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s good at winging it, sort of like a politician.”

“Well, duh. He comes from a long line of politicians. It’s probably in the Lyndon genome. And besides, all politicians lie.”

“He surprised me last night though.”

“You were out with him last night?” A shiver ran up Courtney’s spine. Arwen was too smart to fall for Matt Lyndon, wasn’t she?

“Yeah. We had a meeting with the Dogwood Estates Tenants Association, and your old buddy Sid Miller ripped him a new one. Justifiably so because Matt had missed something obvious. But once Sid made him see the truth, Matt got all passionate about seeing justice done.”

“Sid is a good judge of character. If he ripped him a new one, then Matt deserved it.” Sid Miller and Courtney’s father had been lifelong friends. As boys, they’d fished together. As men, they’d worked at the same hardware store. They’d married two best friends, and until Mom had passed away, Sid and Barbara and Mom and Dad had played bridge together. After Mom died, Barbara had stepped in to help Dad raise Courtney. It had pained Courtney when Sid had sold his little house on Rice Street and moved into Dogwood Estates. That was a little more than a year ago, right after Barbara died. Her long battle with cancer had taken whatever small savings he’d put away.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Arwen leaned back in her chair, and her thoughtful expression morphed into one of pure delight. And then, for no apparent reason at all, a wicked gleam lit up her eyes. “I just had a devious thought.”

“About Matt Lyndon? Do tell.”

“I think you should get him in a dark corner, all revved up and ready to go, and then ask him if he’d be okay being your sperm donor.” Arwen could hardly finish speaking before she started laughing uncontrollably, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Oh my God, what if he says yes?” she managed between giggles.

What if he says yes? The idea had a certain weird appeal, which was frightening. “Shut up,” Courtney said. “I’m not going to ask Matt Lyndon to be a sperm donor. Can you imagine the scandal that would cause in this town?”

“You should do it just to blow his mind.”

“No. That’s too crazy.” Courtney twisted in her seat. “But I do need to ask Ryan out for Wednesday night.” She looked back at Arwen, over her shoulder. “Unless you’re planning to do next Wednesday’s open mic?”

Arwen shook her head. “No. My brother’s going to be in DC that day. I’m meeting him for drinks in the city.” She paused a moment. “How can you be so sure that Matt’s going to ask you out for Wednesday?”

“Because he’s a Hook-up Artist who’s made a bet with a Nice Guy Not. Trust me, there’s a timeline for his seduction. And my guess is he’ll ask me in for Netflix. I intend to be otherwise engaged.” She pushed up from the table. “Give me a second. I’ll be right back.” She scooped up her half-finished Manhattan and headed toward Ryan and the bar.

Matt needed a beer. Thursday had been a difficult and depressing day at work. He’d started by taking the Dogwood Estates file apart, reading every single document in it. Then he’d pulled up the Jefferson County code and read through all the provisions regarding building health and safety. He also shamelessly used his last name, and like the lobbyist he had been, he made a few cold calls to various county government employees.

The picture his research painted was grim. That old guy, Sid Miller, had been right. A few days after the tenants had set up their legal escrow account, the Jefferson County building and fire inspectors had paid a visit to Dogwood Estates, after which they’d notified the landlord of the repairs needed. The landlord was given thirty days to bring the property up to code, but he’d done nothing.

Forty days later—last Monday, to be precise—the government had fined the landlord and placed a lien on his property.

It was clear that the landlord didn’t have the money for the repairs or the fines. So it was only a matter of time before the county either condemned the building or the landlord sold out. Either way, the law would grind on, and eventually eviction notices would be issued. Given recent development in the area and escalating property values, those folks might have a hard time finding housing they could afford.

And the worst thing about it was that Matt couldn’t stop it from happening. At the end of the day, LL&K may have provided adequate legal counsel to the tenants, but the firm certainly hadn’t given them a just or fair resolution to their problems.

So, after work, he headed directly to the Jaybird Café, looking for a diversion. He found it in the person of Courtney Wallace, who was sitting at the bar with Ryan Pierce.

Of course it was too early to talk to Courtney. Only a few days had passed since their dinner at the Union Jack. He ought to wait a week before speaking with her again or run the risk of appearing too anxious. He knew from experience that women didn’t like desperate men.

But he could hardly ignore her, could he? Especially when she looked so delicious this evening in a dark-blue dress that hugged every curve and plunged in the front to display enticing cleavage. She turned the moment he crossed the threshold, those incredible turquoise eyes blinking up at him from behind her bangs.

Instant awareness. Instant desire. Instant want.

Once, a long, long time ago, he would have been stupid enough to act on this attraction. He would have rushed in and said something profoundly dumb that would hand her all the leverage in the encounter. He was smarter now.

Still, she was hard to resist.

And for some reason, it irked him that every time he ran into her at the Jaybird Café she was sitting with Ryan Pierce. Guys like Ryan, who’d served their country and who spent hours in the gym pumping up their biceps, intimidated the crap out of him. In normal pickup situations, he steered clear of any woman sitting next to a guy like Ryan Pierce.

But this was Courtney. And it had been a thoroughly lousy day at work. So he strolled right up to the empty stool beside her and took a seat.

She turned her back on him, pretending that she hadn’t seen him walk into the room. Or maybe she was just being her normal contrary self. He had to admit that her contrariness was oddly attractive.

“Hey, Matt,” Ryan Pierce said, leaning forward a little so he could peer around Courtney.

Courtney’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn in his direction.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much. But if you’re planning to ask Courtney out on a date for next Wednesday, she’s busy,” Ryan said.

The possessiveness in Ryan’s voice irritated Matt for some reason. He squared his shoulders. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said, “because I was going to ask her out for Thursday night.”

“Good,” Ryan said in a tone that sounded almost amused. “We’re not doing anything on Thursday. So she’s free.”

Courtney snatched up her Manhattan and drained it in a single gulp. She slammed the glass down, turned, pointed her finger at Matt, and then said, “Okay, where are you taking me this time?”

Her eyes focused on him like a pair of blue lasers. The question was a test. His usual approach, inviting a woman in for dinner and movies at his place, wasn’t going to work. First of all, he was still living with his parents until he could find an apartment in town. But more important, Courtney knew he was going to ask her in for an evening of movies, and possibly some making out. The key to Courtney was surprise.

“How about dinner at the Red Fern Inn?”

Wow. That did it. Her gaze softened and her breath hitched visibly. She bit her lip. The surprised expression on her face was unbelievably sexy. Oh, man, did he have an itch. It took real restraint not to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her.

“Okay, Thursday night,” she said in a soft voice barely above a whisper. “Now I’ve got to go back to my table.” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder to where Arwen Jacobs was sitting. As usual, Arwen was shooting him the Frown of Disapproval.

Matt didn’t want her to go, but it would be a mistake to ask her to stay. So he let her slip away.

“I’d be careful with her if I were you.”

He turned toward the voice and found Juni Petersen standing behind her bar with a sober expression on her face. It always amazed Matt that Juni and Willow were sisters. They didn’t look at all alike, and their personalities were as different as night and day.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because she believes in romance.”

“Courtney? Are you out of your mind?”

Juni shook her head. “She’s only tough because she’s been hurt so many times. If you’re out to hurt her, then you should know that I have the right to kick your ass out of my bar. So don’t hurt her.” Juni paused for a moment as a smile unfolded on her face. “Now that we’ve come to an understanding, what can I get you to drink?”

Arwen watched from across the room as Courtney spoke with Matt. Holy hell, what was going on inside her head? She gazed up at Matt as if she wanted to devour him.

That was bad.

No, maybe it was good.

Crap. Like most things in life, the idea of Courtney hooking up with Matt tweaked Arwen’s finely tuned sense of irony, or maybe her funny bone. Either way, the public display of lust proved Arwen’s point about the world of modern relationships.

Courtship had gone the way of the dodo birds. It was extinct. Today’s single girl had to be sexually liberated and possess an unbreakable heart and truly thick skin.

She finished her margarita just as Courtney returned to the table.

“So, how did he react when you told him you had a date with Ryan?”

“He didn’t. Ryan threw me under the bus. And then Matt asked if I’d go out with him to the Red Fern and…” Courtney ended the sentence with a long sigh. “You know I have a thing about the Red Fern, right?”

Arwen knew, and Matt’s invitation struck her as odd somehow. “So you said yes?”

Courtney refused to make eye contact. “You were the one who started the evening off talking about romance. When was the last time someone took you to a restaurant with white tablecloths?”

“Point taken. But you know he’s a Hook-up Artist, right? They always take women to restaurants with white tablecloths.”

Courtney propped her chin on her hand. “You’re right. I’m an idiot.” She drew circles on the table with her index finger. “Is he looking at me…? No wait, don’t tell me. I’m not going to behave like a middle school kid.”

Arwen leaned forward and stilled Courtney’s hand. “Look, Court, earlier tonight you said you were tired of waiting for Mr. Right. So don’t wait for him. Go out with Matt, have a good time, and keep your expectations low.”

“I guess that would be better than breaking off the date, going to the shelter, and adopting a cat, huh?”

“I don’t know if it’s better or worse, to tell you the truth. It’s just what it is. We are living in the twenty-first century, we have sexual freedom, and that requires a certain amount of sacrifice.”

“That sounds like a hook line for a song.”

Arwen smiled and nodded. “Yeah kind of.”

“Look, I need to go. It’s like I can feel him looking at me, you know? And I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

“It’s okay. You go, and I’ll mosey over to the bar and talk to him. We’re work colleagues now. Maybe I can winnow out some of his secrets for you.”

“Okay, call me tomorrow.” Courtney pulled a twenty out of her wallet and handed it to Arwen to cover her drinks. Then she got up and sailed past the men at the bar as if she were a mighty ocean liner calmly plowing through unseen depths, deadly currents, and stormy seas. She didn’t look at them or acknowledge them in any way.

Arwen picked up her nearly empty margarita glass and took it to the bar, hopping up on the stool right beside Matt. She waved the glass at Rory, who gave her a heart stopping smile that melted her insides. She quickly glanced away. Maybe she and Courtney needed to find some other bar. All of the men at the Jaybird needed to have big yellow danger signs hung around their necks.

“Did she send you over here to spy on me?” Matt turned on his bar stool with a raised eyebrow.

“Among other things.” She hooked her toes under the stool’s rung and tried hard not to watch Rory, down the bar, making her margarita.

“What other things?”

“Look, Courtney is my best friend. She’s had her heart broken a zillion times. So don’t go there. I mean it. You and I have to work together, and if you screw around with her, I will find all sorts of ways to make your life miserable.” She clutched the edge of the bar as her pulse spiked. Matthew Lyndon could easily get her fired from LL&K. But Arwen didn’t think Matthew was a prick, not after seeing his reaction to last night’s meeting of the Dogwood Estates Tenants Association. Those people had moved him, and Arwen had a feeling he had a heart beating somewhere inside that impressively wide chest of his.

“I have no intention of screwing around with her,” he said.

“Really?” This came from Ryan, who leaned toward Matt with his right elbow planted on the bar.

Matt turned toward Ryan. “Look, man, if you and Courtney have something going on, just say so. I mean, you made it sound like you didn’t have any problem with me taking her out on Thursday.”

“I don’t have any problem with you taking her out, and I don’t have anything going on with her. But I share Arwen’s view. If you mess with her, you can expect to hear from me.”

“How exactly do you define the word ‘mess’?” Matt’s voice sounded unworried, but Arwen noted a slight tightening in his shoulders. Men. They had more testosterone than was necessary, in her opinion.

“If, for example,” Ryan said in a voice like an iron fist in a velvet glove, “you were to use her to win a bet, for example.”

Matt turned away from Ryan and studied the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar, lit up with multicolored twinkle lights. After a long moment, he drew in a deep breath and spoke again in a firm voice. “I have never used a woman.” He turned and met Ryan’s stare.

“Good. Don’t start now.” Ryan stood up and threw a few dollars down on the bar to cover his Coke. He turned and strolled away, shoulders as straight as a marine on parade.

“So, does this mean Courtney knows about my bet with Brandon?” He glanced at Arwen out of the corner of his eye.

“She might.”

He nodded and stood up too, leaving an unfinished beer on the bar. “See you at the office tomorrow,” he said, before heading toward the Jaybird’s front door.

A moment later, Rory returned with her second margarita. “Ah, it looks like you’re drinking alone.” He gently placed the drink before her, and Arwen spent a sensuous moment studying the backs of his broad, brown hands. She lifted her head and met his bold blue eyes. Heat prickled her skin as that gaze rubbed up against her erogenous zones. Her bones started to dissolve.

“Want to tell me your troubles?” His voice was as mellow as Irish whiskey and twice as potent. “I’m a good listener.”

Yes, he was. And that made him more dangerous than any of the other men in this bar. She could fall hopelessly in love with someone who listened—truly listened—to her songs.

She picked up the drink and took a bracing swallow of sweet and salt combined, and then put it down with a hard thump. “Romance is dead,” she said, breaking eye contact. She reached for her purse. A moment later, she pulled out enough bills to cover the night’s tab. But when she laid them on the bar, Rory struck like a mythological Irish snake, snatching her hand before she could withdraw it. A jolt of pure, uncut lust hit her bloodstream.

He gently tugged her hand forward, and then the dangerous Rory Ahearn, a man with tattoos, a motorcycle, a sexy-as-sin accent, and a devil-may-care attitude toward life, turned her hand over and pressed a single, moist killer of a kiss into the palm of her hand.

He looked up, his eyes filled with fire. “Have a good night, lass.”

Courtney had exactly twelve minutes before her meeting with Laurie Wilson, and she probably should have used that time to review her notes for the upcoming wedding. But this was the third wedding Courtney had planned for Laurie. Brandon had dumped her at the altar the first time around. And she’d dumped Brandon the second time around. This time she was marrying someone else, thank God. In any event, after three weddings Courtney knew Laurie’s likes and dislikes like she knew the back of her own hand.

So instead of reviewing the Wilson-Lyndon file, she studied Matthew Lyndon’s contact information in her iPhone, her finger poised over the telephone number. Six days had passed since she’d run into him at the Jaybird, since he’d invited her out to the Red Fern Inn. Their supposed date was tomorrow night, but she hadn’t heard one word from him.

So typical.

She halfway hoped he’d forgotten about it because she didn’t want a guy like Matt to pollute her memories of Dad and their dates at the Red Fern Inn. But she knew he hadn’t forgotten. He was just testing her.

And even though she wanted to cancel, her finger hesitated over the phone, stopped by her clearly out-of-control libido. Courtney hadn’t had sex in almost a year. The whole use-it-or-lose-it concept was beginning to worry her. What if she never had sex again? What a depressing thought.

Clearly her libido recognized a potentially great lover when it saw one. If it weren’t for Brandon Kopp and his bet, she might even let it happen. Would it be so bad if she hooked up with a known Hook-up Artist?

She put down the iPhone and turned toward her laptop. Maybe she should forget about her date with Matt and think about her future. If Mr. Right wasn’t ever going to arrive, maybe she should go after what she truly wanted in life—a family. Waiting for some guy seemed like a stupid plan of action.

She booted her web browser and keyed in the words “sperm bank near me.” Google returned two million hits. Clearly, sperm donors were in high demand these days. Maybe everyone was tired of waiting.

She let go of a long sigh as she studied the Google list.

The Fairfax Cryobank had forty-nine Google reviews with an average of four and a half stars. She clicked on the link to the sperm bank’s webpage, where she learned she could select a sperm donor by race, hair color, and eye color. She could also upload a photo of herself and use a facial matching program to select the donor that looked most like herself.

She sat there trying to process this information. Why would she want a child who looked like herself? In her fantasies, there was always a husband—a handsome one—who loved her more than life. Their baby always looked like a miniature of him in every way.

She didn’t want a child who resembled her. She’d been the ugliest baby in the history of man, with a big dome head and a lazy eye. All her school pictures showed this poor child with an overbite, Coke-bottle glasses, an eye patch, and a page-boy haircut. It only got worse when her adult teeth and hormones arrived. She’d spent her teen years wearing out the road between her father’s house and the orthodontist, ophthalmologist, and dermatologist. Surgery and contacts had finally fixed the lazy eye. Years of braces and losing four adult molars had fixed her teeth. And time had finally dealt a blow to the acne.

She didn’t want a kid who looked like her. Never in a million years. If she were going to find a sperm donor, she’d upload a picture of Johnny Depp or Ashton Kutcher—someone with deep, soulful brown eyes.

Sort of like Matt Lyndon’s.

No. Matt didn’t have soulful anything, although his eyes were as dark as espresso. Her body tingled with the thought, and gooseflesh prickled her skin.

“Hey. What are you looking at?”

Courtney minimized her web browser and turned around. Laurie Wilson stood in the office’s doorway, her blond hair pulled back in an easy ponytail that exposed the pearls at her ears and throat. They looked classic and beautiful with her navy and white polka-dot sundress. The expression on her face was a bit wide-eyed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Courtney closed her laptop completely. “Oh, nothing. I didn’t expect you to come all the way up here.” Usually brides checked in with the front desk and Courtney met them down in the lobby, where she treated them to tea or samples of Antonin’s baking.

Laurie settled in the side chair. “I’ve already seen Eagle Hill Manor from top to bottom. I’ve sampled all of Antonin’s fabulous canapés and hors d’oeuvres. I don’t even know why we’re having this meeting. I just want to get it over with. Honestly, I wanted to go to Vegas for a quickie wedding, but Andrew is old-school.” Laurie smiled the sappiest smile when she said her fiancé’s name.

And why not smile? Andrew was that rare man who knew how to treat a woman with respect. He’d stepped right up when Brandon had crushed Laurie’s heart. He’d protected her, wooed her, and treated her like she hung the moon. He was the exception to Arwen’s theory that romance was dead in America.

Courtney was happy for Laurie. And for Willow, Amy, and Melissa, her good friends, all of whom had found wonderful men in the last few years. But she hated that sappy look her friends got when they talked about their husbands and lovers. Envy pressed down on her heart like a giant invisible millstone.

She broke eye contact and pulled forward the manila folder containing the details for the Wilson-Lyndon reception. She needed to focus on her work, but before she could open the file, Laurie said, “Forget it, Court. I have no desire to go over the details. I’m sure it will be fine, whatever you do.”

Just then Amy strode into the office carrying a vase containing two dozen long-stemmed red roses. “These just arrived for you,” she said, placing them on the corner of Courtney’s desk. “Everyone downstairs is dying to know who they’re from.” Amy turned toward Laurie with a grin. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Okay. How about you?”

Amy held her hand out flat and wiggled it. “I throw up every morning.”

“It’s every evening for me.”

“Wait, what?” Courtney shifted her gaze from Amy to Laurie and back again.

Laurie grinned. “It looks like Andrew and I got the cart before the horse. Amy and I have almost the same due date, which is wonderful since our babies will be first cousins.”

Courtney clamped her mouth shut on the explosion of profanity that threatened to come out of it. She gave them her best imitation of a smile and then ripped the little square envelope off the roses. The writing on the card was bold and masculine and looked as if it had been executed using a blue Sharpie. Since Courtney had never seen Matt’s handwriting, she had no way of knowing whether he’d written the card himself or simply dictated it to the florist. Either way, the message was cryptic. It began with a four-line poem:

And it ended with a one-line signature: Tomorrow. 6:30 p.m. at the Red Fern. M.

“Who’s M?” Amy asked, shamelessly looking over Courtney’s shoulder. “And what’s with the flowery poetry?”

“Oh no. Not Matt. Please tell me those flowers did not come from Andrew’s cousin.” Laurie looked horrified.

“Oh my God, of course they did. He quotes poetry all the time. His grandmother was much the same way,” Amy said as she pulled her iPhone out of her pocket. “I bet it’s Shakespeare,” she said as her thumbs got busy. “Aha! It is Shakespeare. It’s from one of his sonnets.” She frowned as she read. “It says here that the meaning of the first line is that beauty is more beautiful when it comes with honesty and integrity.”

“Really?” Laurie said, her face paling. “Matt has balls to send Courtney something like that. Oh my God. I’m going to kill him.”

“No, don’t, Courtney said. “And don’t worry. I’ve got the situation under control.” Although that was debatable. The flowers were amazing. Hook-up Artists often used flowers and poetry as tools of seduction, but they usually quoted dumb lyrics from pop music. Not Shakespeare.

“How could you get involved with him?” Laurie asked.

“I’m not involved. I’m not even dating him. I’m teaching him a lesson.”

Laurie collapsed back in the chair. “I’m worried about you, Court. I come in here and you’re looking at sperm banks on your laptop, and then you get two dozen roses from the biggest player on the face of the planet. Do we need to stage an intervention? What the hell is this about?”

Courtney settled back in her chair. This was going to take a while to explain. “This has nothing to do with you or the way Matt behaved when you and Brandon broke up. This is about me and a truly nasty bet that Brandon and Matt made a couple of weeks ago.”